


Lucky

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Moon Knight (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank is not a lucky man.





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kokopellifacetattoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokopellifacetattoo/gifts).



> For Juice. Ayy, keep up the good ideas.

Frank’s half unconscious when Marc gets him to the safehouse. He’s out of it enough that he doesn’t exactly remember how they managed to get from the streets to the bed. They killed the traffickers before Frank collapsed the first time, but even that’s… hazy. He remembers the heavy punch of bullets lodging in his armor, he remembers backing into something, he remembers falling. He does not remember hitting the ground.

He registers the firmness of the the camp bed under him, not comfortable, really, but supportive. Familiar. 

Safe.

The next time he opens his eyes, Marc is sitting beside him, maskless, face furrowed in irritable anxiety. His hands are on Frank’s side, laying sutures to close a stab wound. Every part of Frank hurts, some parts more than others, enough that he knows he’s definitely broken a few ribs, maybe his left arm as well. Falling from a third story landing tended to do that kind of thing. 

Probably he was lucky. 

He didn’t feel lucky, but then again, he very rarely did.

“You are reckless,” Marc intones, and there’s something sharper in his tone, almost brittle. He’s angry, and Frank supposes he understands, even as he bristles. “I should have dragged you to a hospital. Did you think perhaps you would sprout wings and fly? Or is it merely that you think yourself invulnerable?”

“Jesus Christ,” Frank growls, and his voice is embarrassingly soft, hoarse with how dry his mouth is. He clears his throat (it hurts, he tastes blood, more old news at eleven) and tries again. “I  _ fell _ . You make it sound like I did it on purpose.”

There’s something terribly intimate about letting himself be seen this way. Frank has spent years taking care of himself, walling himself off, making sure that no one will see him compromised. If that meant weeks he had to spend out of commission so he could heal, if that meant sutures popping because he hadn’t been able to lay them properly, if that meant discomfort at his day job, so fucking be it, because Frank didn’t want help. 

People saw an injured man, they saw a target. Or someone to pity. 

Frank could not afford to be any more of a target than he already was, and he couldn’t stand pity. 

Marc doesn’t do pity. Given the quantity and quality of the sex they’ve been having, Frank is prepared to say that Marc’s also not going to kill him. Frank  _ trusted _ Marc, more than he was willing to trust most. 

Laying in the silence, letting Marc stew while he finishes setting the stitches in Frank’s side, Frank tries to keep the more romantic aspect of their relationship mentally divorced from this, the work aspect. Marc’s hands are on him now out of necessity; this is not sexual, this is not a bonding moment. Marc is doing this because Frank is only useful to him alive and not in prison, not because of any emotional hangup.

If anything, this is just two soldiers, one making sure the other doesn’t die. 

“You were reckless too,” Frank grumbles after a moment, sounding more petulant than he means to. “You’re always reckless.”

The look he gets is, admittedly, a very intense one. A lesser man might have retracted his statement, faced with such a look. Frank presses his lips together, and refuses to look away. 

“Are you favoured by a god now, Frank?” Marc asks, and that tone is dangerous, that tone makes something in Frank shiver. Frank isn’t certain if it’s from fear or lust, and the fact that he can’t tell probably says a lot about who he is as a person. “When you die, will your God return your soul to your body and allow you to walk once more as His hand of vengeance?”

Wisely, Frank says nothing. 

“Ah, see, I thought as much. If you die, you  _ die _ , and I refuse to see that happen.”

Now that hardly seems fair. Frank can hardly be blamed for tensing up at that, for snarling back. “Oh, so I’m just supposed to be okay with you throwing yourself into danger, with watching  _ you _ die, over and over if you want, because you’ll come back?”

“If you don’t want to watch, look away,” Marc snaps. “I come back. You won’t. If you’re too stupid to see the difference then maybe you shouldn’t be out there at all.”

Marc’s hands aren’t even on Frank anymore, needle set aside. And yet, weirdly, it’s only getting more difficult to separate intimacy from intensity. There’s something about that particularly sharp, burning look in Marc’s eyes than makes Frank wish breathing didn’t hurt so much, makes him wish he were lying here shirtless under entirely different pretenses. 

“Who’s gonna stop me,” Frank manages, forcing his voice to growl, to drip with scathing disdain. “You?”

“Perhaps I will,” Marc replies, deadly serious, intent. He keeps his eyes locked with Frank’s refusing to let him look away, and there’s something about the easy way Marc dominates him in this, something about how it’s perfectly safe to let him. “Perhaps I’ll lock you away somewhere,  secret and safe, where only I can get to you.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Frank says, and damnit, his voice has gone soft, breathy almost. It’s not his fault, not when Marc is looking at him like that, not when it’s suddenly impossible to delineate how much of what Marc’s suggesting is a threat and how much is just him teasing. Surely the concern isn’t genuine, so it has to be a tease.

Has to be.

“Oh, I’m sure I would,” Marc assures, dry and heated. He sounds angry, the way he gets angry when he decides Frank’s being difficult or intentionally obtuse. Like he’s actually concerned and think’s Frank’s mocking him for it. “I’ll hide you somewhere not even the moonlight can find you, and maybe then I can rest, knowing you can’t get yourself killed.”

That is definitely not supposed to be a turn on. That’s supposed to be a threat, that’s supposed to make Frank duck his head and acquiesce, admit he’d been wrong and promise to be more mindful, not fall off anymore buildings. It’s not supposed to make his heart rate go up, make him blush, and it’s  _ definitely _ not supposed to get him half hard.

Given how much pain he’s in, he doesn’t think  _ anything _ should be getting him worked up like that. Especially not when Marc’s not even trying. 

It’s just… the idea of being kept as something that needs protecting, something concealed and somehow precious. The idea that Marc cares that much. Wants him safe. Would  _ protect him _ . Yeah, there’s definitely…  _ something _ about that idea, something that really does it for him, and he shifts a little uncomfortably as Marc keeps going.

“I’ll hide you away and kill anyone looking for you. My secret, just for me, until the world forgets your face and it’s safe again. No more worrying about you getting your head blown off, no more watching you fall.”

Frank frowns, uncomfortable. He doesn’t think Marc gets it, what he’s doing to him. In fact, he  _ knows _ that Marc hasn’t got a clue, because when he shifts uneasily on the bed, trying to redirect blood flow away from his dick, Marc’s brows furrow in something like confusion. Frank knows the exact moment Marc realizes what’s happening, can tell by the subtle shift of emotion on his face, from irritation to confusion to amusement. 

Suddenly hands are on him again, not rough or clinical -- god, it’s  _ miles _ from  _ clinical _ , the way Marc’s touching him now. He touches him gently, careful, seeking the places that make Frank’s lips part, makes him sigh and close his eyes. He can’t look at Marc, not when his eyes are bright and intense, his mouth curled in wry amusement as his hands glide over sore flesh, from chest to stomach. 

“You’re actually getting hard over this. Is that what you really want, Frank?” Fingers slip under the waistband of his trousers, not far enough for anything but a tease. “You want me to hide you away, make you mine and only mine? My secret, just mine.”

“Fuck,” Frank breathes, unable to stop himself. “Fuck, Marc…”

Marc makes a little noise, considering, and then drags his hand off Frank’s body. The loss is sudden, jarring, like a slap from a stranger. Frank’s eyes flash open, glaring at Marc, beseeching. He’s so hard, his whole body aches, caught between the pain of his injuries and the surge of arousal. 

“No,” Marc says, and  _ smiles _ , smug. “Not tonight. Not when you’ve behaved so poorly.”

Again, that shouldn’t be hot -- it should be infuriating -- but it definitely is. “Marc, you’re killin’ me here.” 

“Then you’d best pray I bring you back.”

That doesn’t even make sense, but Frank’s dick twitches anyway, and he groans. 

Frank’s a proud man, but he’s not too proud to beg when it’s just them, just them alone like this. He’d get on his knees and pray to whichever god Marc wanted him to for a little relief. Marc probably knows that well enough, and instead of helping with the problem he’s created, he just stands and leans down to kiss Frank’s brow. 

“You got lucky once today already, Frank,” Marc says, moving to put away the first aid supplies, leaving Frank lying there, hard and wanting. “Think about that next time. How do you want your luck to play out?”

“Aw, c’mon, Marc, don’t -- don’t be an asshole.”

“Rest up, Frank. I’ll see you in time.”

And just like that, he leaves, opening the door and slipping out into the rain. Frank stares at the closed door for a long moment, waiting for Marc to come back, give up the game. After a few minutes, he grumbles, struggling to open his trousers with one hand because trying to move his left arm hurts entirely too much. 

Wrapping his hand around his own dick, still harder than he can justify for the situation at hand, Frank doesn’t think he’s ever felt less lucky in his life.


End file.
